  I work, as many do, at a large corporation that exploits Canadian labor to produce goods of shoddy quality with high price tags. My work requires an intellectual backbone but no legs. Indeed, the only physical labor I perform each day is to get into my chair, and had I an East German maid handy, I would not even need to do that myself.
Sometimes I look out my window at the road below, hoping that a deer, elk, or moose cross it and create some excitement. But the deer, elk, and moose were all killed years ago by the first Republicans, who came to our country in the late seventies to escape persecution by Dirk Nowitzki's mother, who was, and remains, awfully tall. So instead I work and ponder the great mysteries of life, many of which concern people's reluctance to use the word "phlegmatic" in casual discourse. 
